Plotbunny Shed
by ellesra
Summary: All plotbunnies need a home. You can let them stay in your desk, transforming into dust bunnies, or you can give them to the public and see what happens. Which is just what has happened in this composition of drabbles.  will be mostly Harry Potter


**Plotbunny Shed**

Description: _Here, I will store all those plotbunnies I just had to get out of my brain, to have space for the crossover I'm working on. Sorry to those who actually like these ideas, but they are not for sale. However, if you can prove you are a good enough writer, I'll willingly let you have them. (that is, ask for permission before taking them. If I do not approve, then you have no right to them)_

_I might find myself willing to continue one of these, but only after my other story is done._

o1: **A KIND OF LOSING**

Even through the darkness of the entrance to the Chamber, Ron could clearly see the fact that Harry was as terrified as he was in that one moment before Lockhart uttered the spell. He obviously focused on Harry first, which would have been foolish if Ron had any other wand. As it was, though, his wand was as broken as a body that had been hit to death by a bludger. Which meant, it was in a really bad state.

This is why, when he saw Harry fall back into a sitting position, thoroughly dazed, he defended the two of them the only way he could. Lockhart was tackled, by Ron who was already only a head smaller than the Professor. The latter hit his head with an almost insignificant 'thump', and Ron stared in shock as blood started to flood the floor. Turning to Harry, he found that his friend still sat there on the floor. There was this peculiar look on his face, like he didn't know where he was and how he had gotten there.

"Who am I?" the black-haired youth asked. Ron startled with shock; what was he going to do? Obviously, Harry had been hit with a memory-charm. His father had told him and his siblings about them; nasty things they were, as they could delete any happening from one's mind. Also, by what Lockhart had just said, this one was obviously meant to do more than just make them forget _this_ incident. It was meant to make them delirious.

What to do, what to do? His sister was in there, probably in grave danger. Maybe dying. And here lay Harry, vulnerable as he was with no memory and no will to fight.

"Why is there blood?" he asked in that dazed voice, and Ron was reminded that there were, in fact, another factor in all this; the bleeding Professor.

_He's_ _probably going to die as well_, Ron thought, feeling almost as gone as Harry was acting.

Well, there was really only one thing to do. No matter what, his sister's life meant more to him than Lockhart. And Harry would just have to manage by himself for a little while.

Another door. _Great_. Harry was the only one who could open them, and currently, Harry didn't know he could even talk to snakes. But there _had_ to be another way; where did the Basilisk get into the school? Because, it couldn't have gone through here every time it wanted to kill someone. It had to go through somewhere _easier_, or else it would have been spotted much sooner…

Then he remembered, that Hermione had written something about that on a note. But what was it?

Well, it was easier trying to remember what Harry had said to the first door, actually. Useful information, which was generally what Hermione said to them, was rarely caught in his mind for long.

A few minutes he wasted trying out different combinations of the slithery tongue that Harry had used earlier. Then, finally, the door opened, leading into a large rectangular chamber. With awe, he looked around. Then he saw his sister lying at the end of the chamber.

Never had a distance seemed farther, nor his feet shorter, as he ran with all his power to his sister's side. She was pale, and cold to the touch, like the floor of stone she was lying on. Though her eyes were closed, there was no doubt that she was not sleeping. If it was not for the faint heartbeat he could locate beneath her throat, Ron would have sworn he had lost her.

Tears had thus already broken into the corners of his eyes by the time he had assured himself she was alive, and it was through tears that he met the eyes of the boy-, no, man, who stood there looking at him as though he was some rare specimen.

"You're her brother, aren't you?" the handsome man let out an easy smile, as though this was a discussion held with a cup of tea in hand. "Let me guess… You are too young to be a prefect, and you have no twin with you… Ronald Weasley?"

Blue eyes widened, as the calm dark eyes continued to stare back at him curiously as though nothing was going on.

"Did… Did you… Do _this_ to my sister?" Ron uttered, fists clenched and voice staggering. When the man continued to smile though, he let out a shout of rage and ran at the dark-haired stranger.

Which proved futile, as he went right through and crashed into the statue a couple of meters behind his target. Blood streamed from a large gash in his head as he rose again, swaying slightly with lack of balance.

"You… Who are you?" he tried to say, but it came out a little too blurred for his liking. He was about to try again, but the man laughed, and he closed his mouth again.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle, didn't you know?" the man said as he drew the name out in the air with fire. Ron swayed a bit more, but this Riddle did not become any clearer, so he just let go of trying to make sight and sound and such any clearer and decided to focus on thinking instead. _Chess, think of it as chess. One wrong move, and his queen might kill mine, or worse yet, my king. _Check mate, it would be then.

"I don't really have any use for you, though. I thought that maybe, the chivalrous _Harry Potter_ would come to save the girl, be her knight in shining armour as she dreamed he'd be, but I guess reality is ugly." Tom Riddle twirled something akin to a wand between his fingers, carefully keeping its balance. It made Ron dizzy just to watch his movement, not to mention the wand's.

"Then… What do you have use for?" Ron closed his eyes for a second, leaning back against the gigantic statue of Slytherin. If he hadn't been so insure about the sincerity of his sight, he would have claimed that Riddle was _still_ smiling by the time he opened his eyes, and by the time the man was answering.

"Not everything is black and white. I can use _anything_, but the question is, do I want to use it? Your sister, she's been a great help to me. Yes, even dying to make sure that I can live," the answer came, and in his resulting rage Ron drew his wand. The spell that came forth was not the spell he had wanted, but neither was any other spell he had released from his wand since it broke. The ball of purple light took a wholly different path than where it was originally directed, and met the statue head on. Stones fell to the floor everywhere, and Ron tried to figure which direction would be the safest. Ron decided on his sister's direction, and dove right through Riddle once more. Snatching his sister up in the passing, so light and fragile, he ran all he could. Through all the noise of the falling rubble, though, he thought he could hear a laughter telling him that it was futile, that he would never reach anyone of use before it was too late.

A whispered, hissed password, and soon he was with Harry again, still murmuring in apparent confusion. Ron swore softly, knowing that time was running out. But he couldn't leave Harry there; no way.

"Harry, f-follow me, okay?" Ron's voice was stuttering, weak, and he was beginning to feel his strength drain from him. Even his skinny sister was tough on his arms, dragging his whole body down. But he walked, and walked, until he reached the pipes. The one they had come down, would no doubt be impossible to climb up. This was the reason why he started on another pipe, similar to the other with its dirt and slime and coldness. And then it was all dark, and he saw nothing, though he was sure he heard Harry stumble after him in the darkness. That could also be his own echo, though, and if not it could be an illusion created by this damned dizziness.

How long had they been walking through the pipes? Enough for him to have heard voices, certainly, but he didn't know whose they were. Right now, he could not call upon an enemy, especially not Riddle. If he called the students outside the walls, Riddle would find him. And maybe… Maybe he'd kill him. Honestly, he didn't want to end like this. Dirty, cold, weak. If anything, let him at least die in the act of some heroic deed, not in this darkness, not here…

Suddenly, his tired eyes sighted a crack. Small, but sure not to be coincidence. Please, please let it be an entrance into the castle…

How could he open any entrance without his wand, though? In Hogwarts, magic was the most important component of hidden passages. Of course there were exceptions, but he'd learned that most entrances or passages opened with magic. Thus someone without magic would fail, as he was probably about to do.

"If it's a thin wall, though, I might be able…" he muttered to himself, trying to kick the wall a few times. His strength was swindling away, though, and nothing he did would work…

With that, he collapsed in the dark, senseless talking approaching him slowly.

"…_. were … foolish, my… How could … let…"_ Talking, distant and hushed. Or perhaps close, just very, very hard to hear…

Opening one's eyes, though, is not as easy as waking. Because waking is instinct, but this was hindered by something… Something was in the way.

"_Oh Ginny,"_ a sad voice said, clear and loving and so utterly familiar it almost broke his heart. Because he knew that voice, that emotion, that sadness…

"M… Mo… M… M-om?" he croaked out, forcing his tired eyes open, to take in the sight of a tearcracked and brokenhearted Molly Weasley.

She was crying again, Ron saw, as his mother bombarded him with a hug more meaningful than he'd ever gotten before.

"Ginny… She's… What happened?" Ron asked, trying to look over to where his sister obviously lay, but his sight was partially blurred and curtains blocked his view. When his mother cried more, he knew it was because he was not meant to see.

"She… She's gone, isn't she? I tried, mom, really." His voice was uneven, and now the tears were allowed to fall on his cheeks as well. However, there was one more person he needed to know about before he could allow himself to break down.

"Harry, mom, what happened to him!" Though weak, his voice was now insistent. _Please, please, that Riddle couldn't have gotten him, couldn't have used him like he used Ginny…_

"Ron…" More she could not say before his father was also there, so sad looking.

"Ron, Harry's… He's lost all memory, Ron. Harry won't… He probably won't be able to recognize anyone, not even his own uncle and aunt, the poor, poor dear…" At this the woman trailed off, crying anew.

"Molly, come sit down," Arthur Weasley ordered her gently into the chair, transfigured to be comfortable enough to stay for a long while, perhaps even sleep there.

"So Lockharts spell really got him," was whispered in the quiet, as Ron met the eyes of his parents. "Let me see him, please. And Ginny, too."

The hospital was interesting, Harry Potter had decided. Already he had made so many friends. Agnes, who acted and looked like a dog, but who he knew was nice by the way she caressed his arm with her head. No one had told him what happened to her, so to him, she was perfectly normal, like any of his other friends.

Barnabus was another. He was fun, and always had something to show Harry. He also said that his box of anchovies was his way to freedom. Harry would certainly not deny that belief, and wished he also had such a box.

There was also Balfinn Blane, who always found a way to bring up his ancestry. Claimed he was in the family of _the _Balfour Blane_,_ and with their likeness of name Harry had _no_ doubt it was true. Balfin also gave him candy, which was partly the reason for his great patience with the stories he told, at least so said Jennifer Bletchley and Luke Peakes. But Harry didn't like Jennifer, so it probably wasn't true.

Last but not least was Phoebus, or Professor Penrose as he liked to be called. The elderly man was the smartest person Harry had ever met, because even though the others said so Albus Dumbledore did not seem to Harry as smart as rumour said. Phoebus, though, taught him of the so-called _muggles_, how they closed their eyes to the world around them, and how some muggle _legends_ came to be. Harry liked listening, and Phoebus' talking was absolutely interesting enough.

"If only the healers would let me over here oftener," the raven-haired boy complained, not even taking care so that no one heard. Phoebus Penrose shook his head, smiling in amusement down at the crowned hero. Even when he had forgotten them, the boy-who-lived would never be forgotten by the people. Even if someone rose to take his place.

Years later, someone Harry had never met visited him. This stranger was nothing like he had ever seen before; long, blond hair, clothes that was clearly a fair eleven standards above the hospital clothes Harry wore, and eyes that were cold as ice yet as hard and unforgiving as the hardest of rocks. Really, Harry could never say he had seen such a guy, especially not in _his_ room.

"Harry Potter, aren't you?" the man said, as he smiled in a way that made Harry feel vaguely insecure. Like the stranger was hunter, and he was prey.

Nonetheless he nodded, though. The man reached inside his cloak, and before Harry even managed to absorb the information, the blond man stretched his hand towards him with a packet in hand.

"A gift for you. After all, your birthday is tomorrow," he said with his smooth voice, and suddenly Harry was eager. He reached for it, ripped it open, and saw…

"A… Clock?" he muttered, perplexed. He knew how to tell time, but he had never been given a clock before. It was special, he decided.

"Wear it, Mr. Potter," the stranger said, and Harry nodded. Of course he would. A clock, and as a gift! It was precious to him now, it was.

"I will mister Sir! Thank you very much!" Harry enthused, and tried on the clock. It fit well on his wrist, as though adjusted especially for him.

"You're welcome. And remember, when the time comes, don't take it off, or you won't be able to tell." Though he did not understand, Harry waved and cheered and cried goodbye either way, because there were few enough who bothered to give him presents anymore. It didn't _bother_ him, though, because that would be selfish. Or at least that's what Phoebus had told him, and the Professor always told him truth. So he wore the forlorn feelings in silence, because he knew the few who cared for him _really_ did. Molly Weasley, Arthur Weasley, Ron, Hermione… And the ones who came quite frequently, but who he for some reason had not gained the names of. Or remembered.

Some of his visitors brought with them feelings of regret, feelings of sadness, and even the feeling that he had forgotten something _very_ important. He didn't tell the healers, though, because then they would fuss over him and ask question after question, like they had done in the start. Now, they greeted him in a friendly way and otherwise mostly left him to himself. Which was fine, if you asked Harry.

Because he was happy, and if his past was filled with regret, then he'd rather not remember it at all.

The feeling was strange, like a whirlwind lifting him and throwing him around, yet not letting go. It must be a dream, because Harry could clearly remember going to sleep. Well, the remembrance was perhaps not all _that_ clear, but he remembered at least. Now, though, his eyes were open, as buildings and people and colours flashed by in an endless spiral.

It ended, though, and there he lay, his back aching from the hit with a less than fortunate stone and his head dizzy from the ride. Around him it was dark, but the moon shone and he could thus barely make out shapes around him. There was a man, standing there, clothed in long sweeping robes judging by his form. Behind the man was a rubble, as if someone had dropped a bomb on the building. Surrounding the rubble, though, was a neighbourhood, windows lit with light.

"_Back again to the start of it all,_" a murmur, a slither, yet a voice that brought pain to Harry's head and dread to his stomach.

"_How… Tragical, for you to be back in the very same place your parents sacrificed their lived for you," _the voice continued, and Harry turned to stare blankly into the shining red eyes of a tall, bald man. Or maybe not man, now that Harry took a closer look.

"Who are you?" Harry spoke, because there was really nothing else he could do. He did not know where he was, or who the man in front of him was. The stranger, though, obviously knew him.

"_Ah, so the stories are true. The boy who lived to forget his life. How sad, indeed. So you do not remember your own parents, boy?_" Harry could barely sight a smile on that lipless mouth. He was almost sure, actually, that had the man bared his teeth, his mouth would show fangs as replacement.

"I don't remember anything," the answer came simply, with a shrug that showed he had long since accepted it as a fact.

"_Then I shall show you."_

And show him he did. Suddenly, he was outside a door, and there was a large bang as it broke open. The snake-like man was the intruder, and inside stood the defender tall and raven-haired. Harry followed in the snakeman's footsteps, curiosity leading his eyes from side to side. Now the defendant was dead, eyes wide open but not seeing the ceiling they stared upon. Rather, Harry believed they were looking into the gate of heaven by now.

Up the stairs, the snakeman's feet led. Like a puppy he followed, watching the snakeman's cloak swirl around his feet with fascination.

Then there was a room, coloured in warm red colours and occupied by a woman and a boy. The boy looked like him, Harry thought; the same eyes, the same hair. And the same innocent look Harry saw every time he looked into the mirror.

The woman was obviously his mother, seen by the green eyes and the nose and the almost elegant cheekbones. Now she stood in front of his crib, though, her arms thrown wide as though willing to take on, take _in_ anything that might hurt her baby. And she did, Harry saw, as the snakeman hurled a green bolt of light at her, the same that had killed the other man, the father.

That was as far as the memory went, however, before he was thrown back into his own body again.

"_Do you remember now, boy? Do you remember _me?_"_ the question came, but Harry did not. A negative nod was all the answer he was allowed to give, though, before the snakeman threw a _whirl_ at him. The whirl revealed ropes, which bound him to a burned beam. The beam rocked unsteadily behind him as he tested his bonds.

When the green light came for him, he embraced it with a warm gaze, unable to stretch his arms out for it like his mother had. If his mother had turned to this kind of death, after all, maybe it wouldn't be as bad as all the tales told.

_Then there was only coldness._


End file.
